


And The World Shall Tremble

by OfHealingLove



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Bad Jokes, Dark Shit is Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Horror, I guess???, Kidnapping, Morbid, Non-consensual everything, Time Travel, Unhealthy Relationships, and it all goes downhill from there, can you please take this seriously you've been kidnapped by Reaper and are now his new pet, don't look too hard at the time travel thing, everything else is in 2075, except it turns out very badly for you, just focus: YOU ARE IN OVERWATCH, reader is from 2018, reader is irreverent, reader-insert into overwatch, seriously angst we're just not there yet, you literally pants ol' Gabe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-01 10:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfHealingLove/pseuds/OfHealingLove
Summary: “You can try to break me, but you won’t,” you spit from where you’re sprawled out on the stone floor, freshly tossed into your new quarters. They’re not much, just four impenetrable walls, a cot, sink, and hole in the floor.Gabriel smiles from where he towers over you, amused. “Is that a threat?”Your cold, disillusioned eyes regard him shrewdly. “No. It’s a promise."





	1. Reaper

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, if the tags haven't made it clear enough: the reader, you, come from present day, and through various means end up in the future in 7075. This assumes that the events of Overwatch _are_ actually going to happen, and, as will be explained later, things haven't gone quite the same as canon due to gamemakers not actually predicting the future. Watch out for the altered details!
> 
>  
> 
> Other notes: I honestly don't know why I wrote this or why I have chapter two almost ready but honestly? I just have been reading all this great Reaper/Reader stuff (by DarkDrabblings, strikecommandher, strikingcommanding, and Gaqalesqua) and I'm too inspired. So thanks to these lovely people, this story is here. Honestly, their stuff is better and probably actually complete, so go read their stuff.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. The five-chapter limit is a desperate prayer of mine, not factual at this point. I have too many WIPs.

The day is a cold one, made all the worse for the fact that you and twenty other people are at the lake for a birthday party. Swimming is supposed to be a thing, you think as you regard the cliff you’re going to jump off into the frigid water below. God, the sun isn’t even out. Why couldn’t Marie have rescheduled?

“You scared or somethin’?” asks Jimmy from your psych class.

You don’t like him very much, so you don’t hesitate to correct him. “No,” you say curtly, “I’m just not looking forward to freezing my ass off.”

Jimmy doesn’t catch the cold undercurrent in your voice and belly laughs. “Well, hurry it up, there’s a line’n all.”

You glance back to the group. There is a line, but most of the people in it are preoccupied with drinking beer. The temptation for the cool, fizzy carbonation on your tongue is strong, but you’ve learned the hard way that you and any kind of alcohol don’t mix well. But that doesn’t make any difference right now, since you’re already here and there’s no easy bailing for Marie’s 21st birthday. You turn back to the cliff and the sheer drop into icy green waters.

“You can do it, babe!” Marie calls up from where she’s floating comfortably on a tube. Several other friends cheer similar encouragements, and you decide that at least your one-piece won’t leave you flashing the world on the way up from the water.

“Coming!” you call with a smile that’s not entirely fake, take a few steps back, and then hurtle through the air.

You’re the first one to jump, and so you’re the one who sees mid-air that the water is not as deep as originally thought. You only have a fleeting moment of _oh shit, I’m going to die_ before the world is suddenly black.

But you never touch the water.

* * *

 

A sharp pain in your ribs is what wakes you up.

You jerk away instinctively, eyes popping open in shock from the pain. You see the sun overhead, bright and shining; you feel the overwhelming heat and the crispness of your skin, indicating some kind of sunburn; somehow, the last thing you notice is the skull looming above you, wreathed in black.

That’s who kicked you.

“Rude,” you say instinctively, scowling.

_(What’s going on? Why’s the sun out? Why is it so damn hot? And… why do I… )_

The skull simply stares at you, and with an unpleasant rush you remember Marie’s birthday party, the cliff, and dying—or whatever the memory of dying really is. You just remember darkness, and now you’re here in the scorching sunlight, barren earth beneath you and stretching outwards until it turns into tall, rocky cliffs with the Grim Reaper standing over you.

Given by the way you’re burned to hell, your guess is that you _are_ in hell.

“Oh,” you breathe, catching up to the situation. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Reaper, sir.” You scramble to apologize, but the air seems to grow chillier the moment you do. The tension in the air has you sitting up, hoping to gain some favor with him. Wait, it could easily be a female! “Er, Ms. Reaper… ma’am.”

If you thought the air was frosty before, the sun must have spontaneously gone out because a full-body shiver wracks your body.

“Who the hell are you?” the Grim Reaper asks, and the voice is admittedly everything you would have expected from—him, that’s confirmed.

Your brow furrows. “The… person you’ve guided into the afterlife? Hell, apparently, which honestly I have to object—”

The deep laugh that rumbles out of him, grim and sardonic, startles you. It’s not a friendly or a nice laugh, and you are made notably unsettled by it. You make the conscious effort to edge away from your ferrier into the afterlife.

The laughter stops abruptly. “You’re insane,” the Reaper says, and suddenly a gun is cocked and pointed at your face. “Should’ve left you to die, but I can fix that.” The safety clicks off.

“Holy shit, no!” you shriek, jumping to your feet and holding your hands out. In your fit of terror, all thought of the afterlife is gone and you’re just scared to die. Again. You eye his gun warily. _(Why does that look familiar…?)_ “Hey, hey, no need to get trigger happy! Whatever you want, man, it’s yours, just don’t kill me.”

You briefly think you shouldn’t be so informal with Death himself, but you’re scared shitless and begging for your life, so there’s not much time to plan out properly reverent negotiations.

The gun lowers. “Is that so?” the Reaper asks contemplatively.

You don’t particularly like the way he says it, but you nod anyways. “Sure, whatever you want. But, uh… maybe can I go to heaven after this?”

His skull is really not expressive, so it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. In a video game you had played once, the skeleton monsters had been able to manipulate their faces despite having no skin, making them quite human-like. Instead, with the Grim Reaper, his skull is static and metallic, not even a sign of movement when he speaks. It’s honestly unnerving.

_(Video games. I’ve played a lot of them… Shouldn’t the Grim Reaper’s mask… not be a mask? And the skull isn’t really…)_

“Puta loca,” he mutters in exasperation, and it’s really no surprise that the Grim Reaper is multilingual. Still, the sound of Spanish coming out of his mouth sends a chill cascading down your spine and you can’t repress the shiver. Something is slowly starting to convalesce in your mind, something you’re not sure you want to acknowledge.

 “I resent that,” you tell him, annoyed by the insult and trying to stand strong. _(I have to be dead. I saw those rocks. Or maybe I’m in a coma. There has to be some kind of explanation.)_ “Anyways, business time: what do you want from me?”

His skull _really_ doesn’t show anything. He’s facing your direction, but there’s no indication where his eyes are focused, no sign of what’s going on in his head. As the silence stretches on, you can’t help but fidget nervously, tongue darting out before you start nibbling on your bottom lip, a bad habit that you haven’t been able to break since your childhood.

Only a few moments into your chewing does the Reaper come to his conclusion. “Get on your knees,” he orders. The voice, now that you’re focusing, is actually vaguely familiar.

_(Oh shit, oh no, don’t let this—no. It can’t be. I’m in a coma. I have to be, Overwatch is a video game and the characters aren’t real and maybe I got too good at playing Soldier 76 but no, no, no—)_

The thoughts are clamoring for attention in your head, drowning out pretty much everything else. The only things that exist are you, your insane revelations, and a man who looks terrifyingly like a very _different_ Reaper pointing a gun at you.

Swallowing hard, you chance a look away from the gun up into where you think his eyes might be. _(This absolutely is not possible. But I don’t want to die.)_ “This isn’t some… execution thing, is it?” you ask with an anxious laugh, trying to stall.

He gestures with the gun again, and you know what? You _do_ recognize that gun, and no, you don’t know what the fuck is going on, but even if you’re in a coma, you’re not giving undead Gabriel Reyes a fucking blowjob in exchange for whatever life you can claim to have at the moment.

You kneel. Try not to let your thoughts show on your face. You wet your lips just enough to imply you understand.

The Reaper doesn’t reply, putting his gun back into its holster—exactly what you had wanted—and stepping forward authoritatively, his taloned hands going to his belt buckle.

You’re not going to seem too eager, but if you take the time to think back quickly on what Gabriel—he’s not the Grim Reaper, you’re not going to even start to confuse them—has seen of you, you’re sure he thinks you’re certifiably insane. You just might be, but not like _that._ To sell your act, you try not to look too focused on anything, don’t let that sharp intellect shine in your eyes, and ask in the clueless tone you’d used previously, “Isn’t that supposed to be my job?”

You’re afraid for a moment that you’ve blown it, but honestly, your idea is so mindfuckingly stupid, especially with your target being _Gabriel fucking Reyes,_ that you don’t think he’ll expect it. However, you’re in luck: he just chuckles and calls you a whore, which, yeah, you can see why he thinks that but it’s _really_ unnecessary to say it to your face.

Anyways. It was never about what he thinks, just you getting out of this alive.

So you undo his belt buckle quickly, then move to unbuttoning and unzipping. You have a split-second interval before you assume he’ll want to reassume control.

Just as his hands twitch toward you, your hands grip the hem of his pants and pull them down as fast and hard as you can.

Then, of course, you twist, jump to your feet, make a run for it because _holy shit you just pantsed Gabriel Reyes_. You hope like hell that that somehow interferes with his wraith abilities, because otherwise you’re dead.

It might not be so bad, though. You pantsed the Reaper rather than give him a blowjob. You’re pretty sure that gets you sent straight for heaven’s gates right after this guy blows your brain out.

* * *

 

Gabriel Reyes has seen a lot of shit, been through a lot of shit, and done a lot of shit to other people. He’s no stranger to post-battle adrenaline, nor fucking an unfortunate woman left for dead by her teammates in that post-battle adrenaline. They call it rape. He calls it instinct, nature, whatever; it’s not like he leaves those women alive to sit in their trauma afterwards. Small mercies, he thinks. Yeah, he can be merciful.

Just not, maybe, Overwatch’s definition of merciful. Or anybody else’s, actually.

The thing about this situation is that he’d found a half-dead girl—you’re barely a woman in his eyes, soft and untried and you had just looked so _innocent_ laying there that he’d been certain he was going to fuck you in some way the moment it turned out you were alive—and then you’d proceeded not only trick him and catch him off guard, but you’d also fucking humiliated him in the process.

If Gabriel were the kind of man who could laugh at himself, this would be absolutely hilarious and he’d want to buy you a drink simply for the sheer audacity. Maybe you’d be amenable to coming home with him. Maybe if these were Blackwatch days.

Gabriel Reyes is not a man who can laugh at himself, not like this. However, while he won’t be buying this little bitch any drinks, you’re definitely coming home with him, amenable or not. It’s been a long time since he’s had anything with so much fire, so much life—and goddamn, your eyes, untouched by the horrors of war, make him harder than a fucking rock.

So there’s a moment of shock as he watches you scurry away. You’re slow, at least compared to him, simply because you lack his long legs and physical conditioning. Even if you were quicker than you are, wraithing enables him to catch you regardless.

Gabriel is so damn secure in his ability to catch you that he takes a moment to pull up his pants. He doesn’t redo the belt buckle; he’s not going to wait until he gets back to have you.

And _oh,_ is he going to have you.


	2. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel gets his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnd shit gets dark.
> 
> Like, two paragraphs in.
> 
> Also, huge thanks to all the lovely people who have commented and given kudos! I'm so grateful to you wonderful people, and I appreciate you so much! I'm glad you are enjoying the story and that people are excited for it! <3!

No bones about it; you’re running for your life and you know it. But the earth is flat and seems to stretch on forever, and if you don’t find cover, you’ll never lose your attacker. Well, potential attacker, but you’re certain you’ll be dead in five seconds flat once he catches up to you.

Except…

You realize a little too late that Reyes has a gun, many guns, in fact, and you don’t have to be up close and personal to get shot by one.

It kind of makes you wish you’d stood and fought instead of running for your life, but hey, that’s the breaks. Better than choking to death with a dick down your throat, or worse: being used and quickly disposed of afterwards.

It doesn’t occur to you, nor will it until it slaps you in the face, that Reyes might be interested in a longer term arrangement. That doesn’t even bear thinking about, and you highly doubt _you’re_ the kind of person he’d choose for that. After all, while you’re determined to live, you’d rather die than end up like Junko Furuta.

It would really help if you knew what the ever-living fuck was actually going on.

In your fear, you glance over your shoulder, only to find that Reyes isn’t there. Just a stretch of desert, dry and dusty and overall unfit for traveling in general. As it happens, that’s the moment you run head-on with a hard body and go tumbling backwards, only to be caught by the shoulders and righted.

You’re too shocked to scream at first. Taloned hands are gripping your shoulders, digging gouges into your shoulder blades and the soft skin of your upper chest because of how big his hands are compared to your relatively slight stature. His mask gleams in the sunlight, his towering form engulfing you in shadow, and though it takes a moment, you realize that you’re trapped.

Shrieking in belated surprise, you jerk away from him. All you earn for that is puncture wounds from his claws.

“You’ve clever, _princesa,_ ” Reyes says. “But not clever enough.”

You flinch away and are rewarded with a small trail of warmth trickling down your back. Blood. It only makes you more afraid, but you’ve always been the kind of cover fear with fury. “Get the fuck awa—”

He whirls you around so your back is pressed against his chest. “Not for a long time, princesa.” You’re abruptly forced down to your knees, skin meeting hard earth, and it’s a really inconvenient time to realize you’re only wearing the bathing suit from Marie’s birthday party.

This is starting to feel less and less like a coma, though you’re really hoping, desperately hoping it is one. You wince from the sharp pricks of pain in your shoulders as the claws dig into you. You’ve lived a pretty sheltered life, as far as violence goes. You’ve never been serious injured by another person, and you’re starting to really realize, in a visceral, personal way, what humanity is capable of. It’s not an upsetting news article about it happening to someone else—no, you realize in that very instant that you are about to be raped, possibly brutalized, and either killed outright or left for dead.

And you know, deep down in your bones, that regardless of the whys and hows, that this is _real._

A tarry pit of dread forms in your stomach. The weight of the world is suddenly resting on your shoulders and you _cannot_ hold it up on your own.

“Oh, god…” you whisper, a broken prayer to something that you’re starting to doubt exists.

“The name is Reaper,” Reyes corrects you. When you squeeze your eyes shut to block him out, a tear is forced out and down your cheek. One of his hands strays from your shoulder to caress your waist before reaching up to cup a breast.

Defiance surges in you. You make a desperate gamble, letting instinct guide you where your logic fails.

“No, it’s Gabriel Reyes,” you snap, your voice unexpectedly unwavering.

The hand on your breast stills.

Then the clawed thumb brushes once, twice over your nipple. You can’t stifle your gasp of surprise, of revulsion. Your body reacts nonetheless and the tip starts to harden as he continues his stroking.

“I wonder how you know that,” he says, and his tone is rhetorical. “If you’re an Overwatch agent, you’re a fucking shitty one.” At the mention of the organization, the shoulder wounds are punctured deeper and you bite your lip to stop the whimper from escaping. You can feel bloody trails of liquid on your lower back now; he’s going to leave scars if you live long enough for this to heal.

“Let me go and I’ll tell you,” you offer. You doubt it’ll work.

He grunts in acknowledgement before pressing his hips into yours, and the impressive size of his desire, as well as its hardness, tells you implicitly what his answer is.

You’re pretty sure that if he forces that inside you, if he gets what he wants, you won’t be walking right for a week. Again, if you live that long.

_(“Not for a long time, princesa.”)_

You don’t want to think about what those words might mean. They’re menacing enough just echoing in your mind like that. You’re not going to be a helpless victim.

Determination, rage, fills your blood, your bones, your very being. No, you will not die like this. You were not born just to be snuffed out like a candle. You’re young; you have decades ahead of you. You don’t care who he is—no man is going to hijack you and use you for his own.

You just have to figure out how to make that reality.

The tearing of your swimsuit down the middle, shredded by sharp claws, jolts you out of your mind. You don’t have time to think right now. Every second counts. All but your lower abdomen is exposed, and it’s not helped when the straps of your bathing suit are pushed to the side to fall away.

No matter the indignity, you’re determined to be a survivor. If you have to run for your life naked, if it means staying alive, you’ll do it. When Gabriel Reyes decided he wanted to rape you, you left everything but your will to survive at the door.

Reyes runs his hand over your stomach, and you’re decidedly not embarrassed. It’s not as flat as you would like it to be. You definitely have a little more curvature than some girls. It’s not something you care about right now, even though your stomach has always been a source of personal embarrassment in the past. You hope it turns him off.

Instead, he pulls off one glove to better feel your belly. You vaguely hear him murmur, “So _soft…_ ” under his breath, just before he ducks down and bites you at the juncture between your shoulder and neck.

His canines are sharp and pierce skin. You shriek in pain. Holding you still with his bite, he thrusts his member against your rear while gripping you to him with the bare hand on your belly.

Unexpectedly, that bare hand, a pale, ashen brown, forces itself between your legs, seeking out the sensitive little pearl between your folds. At the first brush you gasp in horror, stilling entirely. He starts a vicious rubbing motion that hurts just as much as it feels good.

“Stop—”

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t even be able to _crawl_ away from me,” Reyes growls into your neck, and then shoves one large finger inside you.

Even including biological reactions to his rough ministrations, you’re not prepared. You’re dry and it burns as he moves his finger inside of you, and the first real tears of fear and shame flow from your cheeks. His degrading words barely register.

 _I’m going to get through this,_ you think to yourself. _I won’t let him have me._

You won’t.

_You won’t._

His finger comes away slick with blood and your automatic physical defenses, wetness of desperation. It definitely has nothing to do with pleasure. From the corner of your eye, you see him slip it under his mask and into his mouth, sucking it clean. Nausea roils in your stomach.

His hand is preoccupied, you register dimly. The other has fallen to lazily grasp your waist.

Instinct, not logic.

The moment you twitch forward, that lazy grasp turns to steel and you scream as those talons gouge into your hip. “The first opening I gave,” he says with a chuckle, sounding pleased. “I’m going to have to watch you closely, princesa. This is going to be _fun._ ”

You barely have time to register his words before you’re forced onto your hands and knees and he’s reaching into his pants for his cock.

“No!” you yell. “No, stop! You can’t fucking do this to me—”

The remaining scraps of your bathing suit are pushed away. “Can’t I?” he asks.

“Stop!” You feel a sob building and forcefully keep it down. “Stop!” Something thick brushes your cleft and you jerk away futilely. It’s getting too real, no—“Please! Please stop! Sto—” He spears into you, splitting you in half and bottoming out at the same time. You never had a chance in hell to be ready for him.

You choke on your pain. A wave of unreality washes over you and you feel the agony shoot through your body, and a cold feeling follows quickly, numbing all sensation and emotion.

Reyes grunts. “So fucking _tight_.”

You quiver.

He pulls back. Thrusts in. Pulls back again, steadily building a rhythm.

His body curves over yours, caging you in and suffocating you. His bare hand cups your breasts while the other holds you in place for his rutting. Tears slip down your face and your mouth hangs open slightly as you pant shallowly through the pain. “Mi princesa,” he growls. “Mi princesa. Un día, serás mi _reina_.” His movements speed up and soon he’s ramming into you, panting words in Spanish that sound suspiciously like praise.

Then, out of nowhere, you feel the tiniest sort of pleasure bloom in your aching lower abdomen. It feels far away, but it’s there, and you realize Reyes has started working your clit, not roughly but in a masterful way that’s actually starting to affect you. You feel the tearing thrusts start to glide, the tenseness of your body start to relax. Something that feels like a very pleasurable kind of sparkling is happening inside you, glacially growing in intensity.

He thrusts too hard and bottoms out again. The pleasure is snuffed and a hoarse whimper escapes your throat.

But Reyes works you right back up until there’s a slick noise squelching between your bodies. Your nipples feel hard and tight. Your abdomen is clenching in something other than pain. You’re limp in his arms.

Your voice comes back to you for a moment. “Please… stop…”

“Not any time soon,” he replies, and bites you again, though not hard enough to genuinely hurt.

You never really had a good sense of the time passing, but it feels especially slow as he wrings pleasure out of your tormented body. He’s forcing it out of you as brutally as he’s forcing himself into you, and like a bird with wings clipped, you’re helpless to escape him. Your only choice is to retreat into your mind, the only place you’re safe.

Shock envelopes you like a warm blanket, and that’s when Reyes starts to up the ante and actually tries to get you to come.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, seemingly from far away. Direct pressure, almost painful, on your clit. Twisting, pinching of your breasts. Sparkling pleasure where there was once excruciating pain. “Come for me, princesa.”

He coaxes and teases and works you up until your mind totally shuts down on you and your walls clamp down around him, milking his too-big cock inside too-small you for all its worth. He roars, a far away deafening noise, and when he comes, it drenches your insides and your thighs.

Reyes releases you. With a spark of defiance penetrating the haze, you catch yourself on your forearms. When he pulls out, you feel bare and gaping and so much relief.

 _I won’t die here_. _I won’t._

He starts redressing himself behind you. You don’t know how you manage to coerce your broken body into motion, but you get up on your raw knees. Reyes stands up. You try to follow, and he hefts you to your feet. You don’t know why he’s helping you, but it’s probably not for a good reason. However, you’re not going to make it very far crawling, and if he’s helping, maybe he doesn’t plan to kill you. Hope blooms. If you live, you can get revenge. You can kill this motherfucker for ever daring to—

He releases you, and the moment you’re standing on your own strength, your hips and legs feel all wrong and your knees buckle. The fall doesn’t really hurt, and you don’t have the capacity to feel much more than vague surprise.

“Pobrecita,” he says, and it’s only slightly mocking.

You wet your dry lips and look up at him. All you see is that dead mask. “Please…”

“Please, what?”

“Please… don’t kill me.”

You can’t see his facial expression, but his tone tells his mood well enough. “Oh, princesa, I was _never_ going to _kill_ you,” he says smugly, and without another word, he covers you in his black mist and picks you up in his arms. Like some kind of demented bride and groom, Gabriel Reyes carries you off to your new future.

With him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, like where it's going, or have hopes to like it some day, please leave kudos!
> 
> If you have any ideas, thoughts, or general commentary, any comments would be greatly appreciated! I read them and reread them and get so much inspiration!
> 
> Thank you, wonderful people!
> 
> Translations:  
> Princesa - Princess  
> Un dia, seras mi reina - One day, you will be my queen
> 
> It's my headcanon that when ol' Gabe is feeling particularly passionate, he falls back into his mother tongue. If he's speaking in English, it's more of a business transaction for him. ;) Therefore, you can expect most of his dirty talk and praise to be in Spanish. I'll try to keep it to stuff that's easily inferred, but there will always be translations at the end if you're confused. I speak Spanish semi-fluently, so I'll try to use my knowledge to the best of my ability. When all else fails though, Google translate!


	3. How Your Story Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel comes to a conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, I've added two chapters to the total. I _knew_ five chapters was too few, but god, I'm so disappointed. I'm telling myself I won't start another story until I finish this one. So. Many. WIPs.
> 
> Anyways, I'm going out on a limb and saying that you can probably expect at least a little smut from every chapter hereon. Don't hold me to it, but it's an important part of the story. :) Anyways, I hope you enjoy the newest addition!

Gabriel considers the prize in his arms. You’d passed out only half a mile into the trek back to his current living space.

Your body, wreathed tastefully in just enough of his mist to cover your breasts and the apex of your thighs—those are _his_ for viewing, no one else’s—is broken and bleeding. He’d been damned surprised when you had stood on your own, even for the scant few seconds that you had. You hadn’t been fully downed at all. Given that most of the women he’s had, especially forcefully, don’t even bother to move from the first moment of penetration, your determination and inner strength are quite refreshing. It’s going to be a real challenge to break you down; if they don’t give up by the first time, he’s learned from experience that they only give up the last time. By then, he’s grown bored with the defiance and after one less-than-satisfying fuck with a woman who’s lost all hope, he kills them.

He’s never met a girl—a woman, because for all your softness and innocence, you’ve got more raw steel in you than almost any other person he’s encountered—like you before. He had been particularly rough with you, just to test your mettle, despite making sure you got your orgasm out of the deal. For all that some may call him misogynistic or a rapist, he never comes without making sure his partner does first.

…Well, almost never, at least.

Gabriel thinks of the last toy he had. She had been a low-ranking Overwatch agent, and she lasted a good three weeks before she gave up. In the end, she spilled the plans for a crucial supply run in a desperate bid for freedom. He’d left her to hope, sabotaged the line, brought back his spoils, and had a nice celebratory fuck. It was then that she realized she was never going to get away from him, and she broke. She had been right, of course—he’d shot her point blank in the head with his come still wet on her thighs.

Somehow, for all that he knows his own patterns, how the human mind works, and his natural cynicism, he doesn’t think your story ends like that.

In fact, he honestly doesn’t know how it will end.

He’s in the home stretch now. An oasis has sprung up in the distance, and nearby he sees his nice little house situated nearby. Good water source, remote enough to avoid unwelcome encounters but close enough to nearby towns to keep him alive and satisfied, and honestly, just a cute home. It’s the kind of place that people expect an older married couple to keep in their retirement. It is _not_ the place they expect to have an elaborate underground prison to keep his toys. But hey, he has to keep busy somehow, and he is a man of needs.

As he places his palm onto the biometric scanner to let himself into the house, he sees your eyelids flutter. You’re waking up in record time, but he’s not surprised. You’re something special, he knows it.

He doesn’t know how your story ends, but he’s very much looking forward to finding out.

* * *

You wake up when the cold draft of air hits you.

You had flitted in and out of consciousness, unbeknownst to your captor. You had seen the disturbingly contemplative look on his face as he carried you; you had felt his grip on you tighten at times when his thoughts had gone elsewhere. The way he carried you like you weighed nothing rooted an indescribable fear in you—there’s nothing good that can come from your rapist having that kind of strength.

You squeeze your eyes shut when you remember the brutal ravaging. Your body still hurts in the worst of ways, puncture wounds tingling and your insides raw and feeling like they’ve been torn open by a white-hot poker, but without the relief of cauterization. All in all, you’re a mess and you’re miserable.

“Morning, sunshine,” Gabriel says, but he doesn’t put you down. You don’t reply, gritting your teeth at his cavalier attitude towards you, and make yourself focus on your surroundings. He _does_ have longer-term plans for you, that’s clear now. You tremble almost unnoticeably at the thought of repeated raping like the one you had just received. You know he notices.

Gabriel isn’t perturbed by your lack of response, instead walking down a long hallway before descending down a flight of stairs. There’s a heavy, reinforced steel door at the bottom, next to which is a panel. When Gabriel places his palm on it, a green line runs down the screen before there’s a hissing and then the door slides open.

It’s not on hinges. It’s fully reliant on Gabriel’s fingerprints to open the door. Your stomach twists with what feels unpleasantly like despair.

It’s dark down in the basement, but dimly lit enough for you to see that he’s taking you to a cell with iron bars and concrete floors and walls. Gabriel enters with yet another biometric scan and then tosses you down to the concrete. You barely catch yourself on your hands and knees, which scream in protest.

Something about the way he’s discarded you brings fire back into your eyes, replacing fear with fury.

“You can try to break me, but you won’t,” you spit from where you’re sprawled out on the stone floor. It’s cold and barren, just like the rest of your quarters. They’re really not much with a moment of further inspection: just four impenetrable walls, a cot, sink, and hole in the floor.

Gabriel smiles from where he towers over you, darkly amused. “Is that a threat?”

You can tell that he’s picked up on your renewed indignation. You feel the bruises and the gouges and the burning inside you, and your cold eyes, disillusioned with your situation and faith in humanity, regard him shrewdly. You don’t want to threaten him because he might take that as a challenge, but he might as well know. “No. It’s a promise.”

You’re not going to die here. You’re going to get out, you’re going to live, and you’re going to someday forget this piece of garbage had ever thought he was worthy of touching you.

“Is that so,” he says, musing. “Let’s see how long it takes for you break that promise.”

Your face contorts into an ugly sneer. He’s underestimating you, but you decide that’s okay. Let him be taken by surprise when you escape. Let him rue the day he decided you were a thing instead of a person.

But then he’s stripping, the cloak and then the mask, then the gloves and his pants. You’re not broken, but you know to scramble away from him. There’s no reason to leave yourself vulnerable.

And this time, better than the last, you’re going to fight. A deep helplessness settles inside you. You know he’s going to get his way, you know he’s going to rape you again, maybe more brutally than last time. He had taken your promise as a challenge, and now you’re going to have to back your words up.

A thought flits through your mind. Do you…?

For today, you have to. Tomorrow… maybe you don’t.

A plan convalesces in your mind, and you swallow hard. It’s going to take everything you have in you to pull this off.

You don’t care what you lose along the way. You’re a survivor, you believe this with all your body, mind, and soul. But that doesn’t mean some sacrifices might not have to be made.

Once Gabriel is as naked as you are, you take a moment to evaluate him. He’s strong, muscular and burly, and in a dark way, he _is_ handsome. You can acknowledge that without betraying yourself. The ridged scars on his face detract from that, but there is still the undeniable fact that you might have given him a second glance if he hadn’t been the human scum that he is. All those thoughts are honest and valid, just as much as the fact that he can never be attractive now. Even if you might have felt a spark of basic animalistic instinct towards him in another situation, that’s a moot point now, because he’s raped you and taken you captive and you know that he has no kind intentions towards you. He wants to break you, and you’re not going to be so easily broken.

You’re enemies, and he has done the worst crime possible for a man to do to a woman. No, no matter that he could have been attractive in another setting, there’s no possibility of that now.

“Like what you see?” he asks playfully when he notices you staring.

“Not particularly,” you reply with a clear look of repulsion on your face. “Just cataloging what I’ll never be able to find attractive in a man again.”

Something dark and furious crosses his face. “You think another man will want you after I’m through with you?” he says mockingly, but you can hear the undercurrent of… something in his voice. You don’t know why he’s so upset.

“Eventually,” you reply bluntly, taking pleasure in the look that contorts his face. “And then I’ll forget all about you. Thank god for small miracles.”

His face smooths out and he smiles, all sharp canines. “You’re assuming you’ll make it out of here alive.”

You don’t reply to that. You know you will. This isn’t how your story ends, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Gabriel grips his tall, menacing cock and strokes it firmly while assessing your body. You feel his eyes linger on your breasts and you cover them instantly. However, small twines of black mist twist from his body to wrap around your wrists and ankles, jerking your body in such a way that you’re on display for him.

You shriek in fury, struggling against your bonds. You are going to _fight,_ dammit, and you’re not going to let inappropriate use of his abilities stop you from that. But he takes a large step forward before kneeling in between your legs. He’s so large and you’re so small in comparison that you can already feel him engulfing you, tearing you open, despite not having touched you yet. You buck and thrash, trying to get away from your restraints, but Gabriel just strokes himself harder until pre-come is leaking from his tip.

“You’re so hot,” he murmurs heatedly, releasing his cock and shoving you bodily into the concrete. Your breath wheezes from your body in a whoosh and your struggles abruptly cease. “I’m going to make you _scream._ ”

Tears fill your eyes and you blink them back, refusing to look at him. The door behind him is shut, you’re pinned down by both him and his mist, and the fact that he is going to rape you again hits you in a visceral way, revealing to you that you had been in denial even while knowing the facts. You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Look at me,” he growls, gripping your chin and forcing you to face him. In response, you squeeze your eyes shut. Fighting can look different in different situations.

You’ve started to regain your breath, but he pushes on your sternum until you’re robbed of oxygen again and your eyes pop open of their own accord. “Look at me or I’ll cut off your eyelids,” he says, deadly calm and serious, and reluctantly, you look at him.

There’s blatant lust in his dark eyes, and you feel yourself wither.

“You’re going to scream my name or I’m going to cut out your tongue.” He pauses, waits for a response.

If he mutilates you, leaves scars that you can’t escape, you’ll never be able to forget him fully. Shakily, tears leaking from your eyes, you nod your head.

“Good girl.” A smirk twists his lips.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated anyone more in your life.

Then his head dips and he pulls a soft nipple into his mouth. You bite your tongue to restrain any sounds as he swirls his own tongue around your areola, pulling it into a tight peak before grazing it with his teeth. Even in your fear and hatred, your body reacts the way it’s been designed to and you feel a sparkle of arousal in your abdomen. You quiver and hold in the sob of despair.

He switches to your other breast, plying the previous peak with twisting and pinching fingers, while the other slides down to your clit to rub in the masterful way he had before. You can feel how slick you are, even against your mind’s utmost desires, and when he slips a finger inside you, there’s nowhere near the amount of resistance as before. He’s playing you like a harp, not a drum.

You feel his finger thrust in and out, searching for something, until he finds what he’s looking for: a spongy little patch that when touched forces your hips off the ground and into his hand. You manage to stay quiet, but you feel the moan at the back of your throat. You’re putting so much effort into forcing it back that you can’t even hate yourself for reacting.

“Estás empapado,” he groans, thrusting his fingers harder against you. Your inner walls twitch and you feel the orgasm cresting, but just as you’re reaching climax he removes his fingers. The only sound between you is your heaving breaths.

It happens so fast you can barely register it. He rubs his soaked hand over his cock before positioning himself and forcing himself inside you.

The scream in the back of your throat escapes at last.

You’re more relaxed now, wet enough to almost accommodate him, but he’s still too big. You feel split in half, even though he doesn’t bottom out this time, and your hips creak in protest.

The words come out without your permission. “Please,” you beg, panting, “Please, it hurts.”

“Tranquilo, princesa,” he grunts, before starting up a steady pace.

You can’t help it. You give into the tears and just try to endure.

* * *

 He has never felt a more perfect body.

You’re so tight it’s almost painful, but he likes that about you. If he hadn’t felt the lack of hymen when he first fucked you, he would have been certain you were a virgin. Even if you hadn’t lost it to another man, you obviously aren’t a highly sexual person.

Gabriel grunts again as your tight pussy clamps around him, your heat trapping and engulfing him. Your juices slicken his path, making him glide even through the resistance. He doesn’t think he’s ever gotten so much pleasure out of a single pussy in his life, and he’s been with _a lot_ of women, some even willing.

He amends his previous assessment when he purposely targets your g-spot and wetness rushes around him. A whine of protest and pleasure wrenches from your throat, delicate and throaty at once. The sound reminds him of a nymph, forcefully taken and forcefully pleasured. You’re definitely a highly sexual person; you just haven’t acted on your urges. All the better for him.

In a flash, he decides that he’s going to bring out that nymph in you. He’s going to break you until the very sight of him makes you wet, until you beg him for his cock the moment he walks into your cell. But brutality won’t get that reaction out of you; he has to train you to associate him with pleasure.

He’s starting to see how your story ends.

Gabriel makes himself slow, delaying his pleasure in order to seek out yours. With all the skill he’s acquired over years of fucking women, he massages his cock against your g-spot until you’re trembling, whimpers torn from your throat even through your tears. He can’t have you crying every time he comes to take you; that’s going to have to stop, now.

“Stop crying,” he says, barely remembering to switch to English you so understand.

That just makes you sob, and he feels your flexing walls lax against him. That turned you off.

You’re going to be a difficult one, maybe the most difficult he’s ever had. That just makes the prize, your submission, all the more worth it. He knew you were special.

He decides you can cry this time—he’ll just have to keep reinforcing the pleasure until the wiring in your brain is reprogrammed to welcome him, not resist.

So he focuses again on pleasing you. He attacks your breasts with lips and tongue, rubbing against your g-spot with unerring accuracy until you’re whimpering again. He’s going to make you come so hard you forget your name.

He realizes he doesn’t know what it is. Easily fixable for next time.

When your walls are consistently flexing around him, squeezing and tightening in undulations that tell him you’re close, he moves his hands to your hips and makes you start moving back against him. Right now it’s by force, but just the simulation of your cooperation brings him to the edge.

“Remember, you’re going to scream my name,” he commands you. The breathlessness of his order can’t be helped.

You nod—or maybe you’re just shaking that hard.

In that moment, his thrust hits home and you scream garbled syllables that _might_ be his name, walls clamping down so hard around his cock that it feels like you’re suffocating him. It’s a good suffocation, and he roars as his own climax hits him. With your pussy milking him like you can’t get enough, it’s hard to keep focusing on your feelings as he brings himself to completion.

It’s only once he’s spent himself that he realizes that you’re whimpering in pain. He must have been hitting your cervix in his fervor; well, he can’t help his size. You’ll get used to it, and maybe you’ll even welcome it at some point.

No, you _will_ welcome it. You’re his now.

Gabriel gets up and redresses himself. You lay there just panting, both your juices mixed together in a puddle between your trembling thighs. Your breasts are bruised and red, still tightly pebbled, and though your face is tear-stained and miserable, you look like the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

He hopes he hasn’t underestimated your mettle, because your story ends as his permanent pet, forever there to please him and be pleased. As long as you’re around, he’s not seeing the need for another toy.

“If you don’t cry next time, you can have a shower,” he says nonchalantly as he presses his hand to the scanner and the door unlocks. You don’t respond, and he has a flash of disappointment. Was your first time together a fluke? Was just this enough to break you?

Then he hears you spit, and sure enough, there’s a glob of saliva on the concrete that just missed his boot.

“Fuck off,” you say hoarsely.

He laughs, unable to keep it in. Before he shuts the door behind him, he makes sure to kick you in the ribs. You cry out, and he lets himself have a private moment of satisfaction.

You’re going to be his until you die. That’s how your story ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we're at the end of the chapter, I want to make an announcement: there is NO romance here. I've added the Unhealthy Relationship tag. If there is romance, it will be one-sided and unrequited, but I'm not going to say on whose side.
> 
> Translations:  
> Estas empapado - You're soaked  
> Tranquilo, princesa - Quiet, princess
> 
> Please leave kudos if you like, love, or are even mildly enjoying this story! They mean so much to me! And if you have commentary, or ideas, or predictions, comments are amazing! I relish every single one. :)
> 
> For Americans, I hope you all have a wonderful Labor Day! For everyone else, I hope you've enjoyed your weekend, and that a three-day weekend comes for you soon! :D


	4. Cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain is necessary; suffering is optional.
> 
> You've heard people say it before: as a platitude, as a pep talk, as a reassurance. Pain is a fact of life, but pushing back against the pain compounds it and causes suffering. Before, it seemed motivational.
> 
> Now, it seems like a lie. Suffering is not always, in fact, optional. Sometimes it's shoved down your throat and you choke on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, friends, buddies, pals, this is where this story gets the angst tag.
> 
> Not much to say up here, but there's some interesting tidbits in the end notes that, if you're curious about Reader's reactions in this chapter, could be a little enlightening to read. I get a little more psychological here, and use my own experiences as references. If you don't care about the details, just know that this chapter is written ALMOST entirely from real-life and personal experience.

Your first night in the basement is spent alone, and you are just so grateful for that, even as your stomach protests and growls for food. The only thing you have to fill up on is water from the sink, which you take advantage of. Dehydration can be lethal, and you doubt Gabriel is the kind of rapist who would rush his captive to a hospital to save their life if they stopped eating or drinking.

You’re _not_ going to die here. In fact, you think you can get out relatively easily if you play your cards right.

 _Relatively_ being the key word here. There’s not going to be anything actually easy about this.

While you’re stuck in that dank, dark prison, you can’t find any reason not to cry. You cry out your desperation, your helplessness; you hope that with enough tears, you’ll be able to start healing the gaping hole that seems to penetrate your chest. It feels like something is torn, broken—somehow, because of what the Reaper has done to you, you’re no longer a whole person.

But oddly enough, stronger than the sense of losing yourself is how _dirty_ you feel.

It’s this cloying sensation that crawls along your skin, like you’ve been dunked in all manner of filthy things and there’s an urgent need to take a shower and scrub yourself raw, to get the touch of Gabriel Reyes off your body. It feels as though if you’re just able to scrub the residue of his violence off that maybe you’ll actually feel clean, not dirty and disgusting and used like a discarded condom.

And it’s not like it helps that you actually are filthy. The past however-long since you jumped into the future—or alternate dimension—has not been kind to you. Gabriel hasn’t hesitated to come inside you, either, and the only reason you’re not worried about getting pregnant is that a) he’s technically already dead and b) you’re almost positive that he doesn’t want any children. More reassuring is that you know his past and so, while it’s not like this was discussed in the game, it has to be assumed he’s shooting blanks. Dead people can’t procreate… but it’s not like you have anything to base it off.

…You really hope Gabriel Reyes doesn’t want kids. It’s vividly clear to you that this _isn’t_ a videogame, this is real life, and so anything you know about him or Overwatch or things like coming back from the dead is just speculation.

Closing your eyes, you breathe deeply and decide to not worry about it. Getting out of here is the number one priority. You can worry about everything else later.

Later, when you’re free, you can have time to be sad, hurt, angry. You’ll have people to talk to, maybe. Maybe you’ll get back home somehow. Maybe you’ll find a therapist, new friends or old, see your family again or make a new one by choice—there’s so many possibilities.

But that’s later, not now, and with Gabriel Reyes in the mix… Well. You only have the now.

Even so, that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

* * *

 

One minute, you’re in an absolute hell on earth. The next, you’re at brunch with Marie and your best friend Courtney. Courtney is laughing at something Marie said, mimosas set in front of the two of them, but none in front of you because they must have remembered you don’t drink. There’s a display of breakfast foods there: pancakes and waffles, muffins, an assortment of Danishes, eggs over easy, bacon and sausage, milk and orange juice and coffee. There’s so much food that—

“Why did we order this much?” you ask. “There’s only three of us.”

Courtney laughs. “Don’t tell me you can’t put a huge dent in this just by yourself.”

You pat your tummy self-deprecatingly. “Well, I don’t know about all those calories…”

“Where’ve you been, anyways?” Marie interjects. “You just disappeared.”

You remember her birthday party and jumping off the cliff. You remember Gabriel raping you, being taken prisoner, raped again. You remember the cold cell, the uncomfortable cot, being alone and hungry and only having water to subsist on.

Something must show on your face, because both Marie and Courtney say at the same time, “What’s wrong?”

You smile weakly. “I just… it’s been rough.”

Courtney frowns. “I know. But you’re here now, right? You escaped; you don’t have to go back.”

“You really don’t,” Marie says. “You did it all on your own, didn’t you? And we’re so proud of you. Thanks for coming home, even if it was hard.”

Blinking back tears, you realize they’re right. You look around you, and all of it is _real_ : the people, the smiling faces, the general air of peace. It feels foreign to you, even though you had only been with Gabriel for less than twenty-four hours, but you’re sure you’ll adjust.

“I’m glad I killed him,” you say. That’s how you escaped, after all: he forced you to give him a blow job and, risking both life and limb, you had bitten him so hard that the appendage had just come right off in your mouth. Overwhelmed with pain, he had gone down, and you had bludgeoned him to death with his own mask. And then you ran like hell until you were here.

“We are too,” Courtney replies. “What he did was unforgivable.”

“But things get better,” Marie says, and she picks up her mimosa. “To better days!”

You pick up you flute of orange juice as Courtney mimics Marie and you all toast. “To better days!”

You drain your orange juice in one go, sweet and pulpy on your dry tongue. Courtney picks up a Danish and offers it to you. “Strawberry and cheese,” she says, wrinkling her nose. She doesn’t like Danishes.

“Thank you, ma’am,” you reply, plucking it from her fingers and taking a large bite. It all but melts on your tongue, flaky, buttery pastry and warm cheese and cool strawberry preserves. You’re starting to get in the mood of this celebration. After all, you’re here, finally, you’re _safe_ , and Gabriel can’t hurt you.

“Can I get you ladies anything else?” asks the cute waiter who has stopped at your table.

“We’re good, I think,” Marie says, and Courtney nods.

“Can you get me my keys?” you ask. “I think I’ve lost them.”

The waiter nods. “I’ll be right back.”

“How could you lose your keys?” Courtney demands frantically. “You can’t get home if you don’t have your keys!”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose!” you say indignantly. “I want to go home just as bad as you do!”

“She lost her keys, she lost her keys,” Marie chants. “You’re never going to go home now.”

“Yes, I will! You can’t stop me from going home! I’ll find them!”

A tall man towers over you, something silver and jangly in his hand. “Hey, I think I found your keys. You need to get home, right?”

You look up and _there’s Gabriel._ You stare at him, slack-jawed, before narrowing your eyes in a glare. “I killed you. You can’t have my keys.”

He dangles them in front of you. “These aren’t your keys?” he asks mockingly.

Your eyes widen. They _are_ your keys.

You snatch at them, but he pulls his hand back and you can’t reach them anymore. “Courtney, Marie, help me—”

But their mimosas are drained and the food is mostly gone, only bits and crumbs remaining. The restaurant is quiet and empty. The cute waiter is lying on the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes and blood surrounding him.

“ _Give me my keys!”_ you shriek, standing up on your chair to try to match Gabriel’s height. You make a mad dash for your keyring.

“They’re _my_ keys now,” Gabriel says. “You can’t have them back anymore.”

You start to cry. “But how will I get home without my keys?” you beg, sobbing.

He envelopes you in a hug so tight you can’t breathe. “You don’t need to get home anymore. You _are_ home.” He squeezes his arms around you in emphasis and you choke for air.

“Give me my keys,” you mouth, air pressed out of your body. You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe! “I want to go home.”

Gabriel hold your keys in front of you. “You’re at home right now,” he says, confused. “You don’t need your keys anymore.”

_“Give me back my keys!”_

Gabriel shrugs, as if baffled by your words, and swallows them.

You wake up crying. At least it was just a nightmare. You’ll call Courtney and ask her to come over, maybe bring some coffee, and she can cheer you up. After all, it’s not like any of that could have been real! You wipe your eyes and laugh a little. Being kidnapped and raped by Reaper from Overwatch? You’re a little worried about the stuff your brain is coming up with, but it’s a relief to wake up safe at home. Blearily, you open your eyes. It’s really dark, no light at all creeping through your window, and you roll over to turn on your bedside lamp.

Your body creaks in protests, and your feel the strangest painful sensation between your legs. Your back hurts as though you’ve been sleeping on a hard surface, even though your bed is memory foam.

A frisson of panic slips, oily and slick, down your spine.

You sit up and reach for your lamp. On one side you reach air, and the other has you smacking your hand into a cold stone wall. Reality starts seeping in. You feel now the cuts and gouges on your body, the dried blood on your skin and the residual dried ejaculate between your thighs. You _hurt._

Your expression shudders into confusion.

“No,” you whisper. You have to say the words out loud—if you say them loud enough, maybe they’ll be real. “No—I’m at home—I can’t—can’t be… It can’t be real, no. No…”

But no matter how you protest, you know the truth: you didn’t dream Marie’s birthday party and the cliff, you didn’t dream Gabriel abducting and raping you, but you did dream that sense of warmth and safety with Marie and Courtney; you did dream up your escape and murder.

And just like that, your whole being crumples and the only thing you can do is cry.

* * *

 

“Sleep well, princesa?” Gabriel asks, startling you from your stupor of misery.

You shriek involuntarily at his voice and whip around to face him. Gabriel is standing there with a tray in his hand. The door is locked behind him and you don’t know how long he’s been in your cell. The lights are on, the only sign that it might be day, and he’s apparently come bearing breakfast. It smells delicious, and you want to ask for it, but somehow you know you’re not going to get it as easily as just requesting he give it to you.

He places the tray down on the floor behind him. “Get on your knees and you can have breakfast,” he says heartlessly.

“So I have to pay my way in my forced captivity, do I?” you ask snidely, even as you wonder where you bravery comes from when you feel so empty inside.

He snorts in amusement at your tone. “Looks that way, doesn’t it.”

You hesitate, trying to decide how much you want that food and what you can get from surrendering so early. Without the darkness surrounding you, and especially being confronted by your rapist and captor again, something inside you rears up and takes charge. You can go on reason and logic and not emotion; emotions are saved for privacy. Almost as though you’ve been trained for surviving captivity all your life, you can’t let Gabriel see you vulnerable, and right now, you don’t feel broken at all.

It relieves you that you might be cracked but you’re not broken.

_You will survive this and you will leave here alive._

That same logic kicks in here. If you _do_ listen to him, give him the blow job and get the food, you’re setting yourself up as weak. He might lose interest, which would be good in most cases, but you don’t think Gabriel Reyes is the kind of man who takes boredom well. He’s more likely to kill you instead of let you go. He would never make it that easy.

Despite your rumbling stomach, you know you have to say no. “Fuck off.”

Gabriel is not surprised in the least, which tells you that you’re meeting his expectations. For right now, you have to do that. If you do something surprising, he’s going to get suspicious. A part of you helplessly thinks that there’s no way you can outsmart a man like him, not one who knows the game in a way you don’t and don’t want to.

But if you’re going to get out, you have to learn the game, because if you don’t play you won’t win.

He stares at you, challenging. You stare back insolently.

With a shrug, he picks up the tray and turns to leave. You see what you just missed out on: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with jelly, a glass of milk. Your mouth floods with saliva. The eggs are still steaming a little, and the bacon looks crunchy and crisp, just the way you like them. You just turned that down.

But it’s what you have to do to survive, you remind yourself. You’re not being needlessly defiant; you’re just playing a longer game, just like Gabriel is, and you don’t want to be the one with the first loss. Lose enough battles and you’ll lose the war before you know it.

So he leaves, and without a backward glance. Once you’re sure he’s gone, you go to the bathroom in the disgusting little hole, then fill up on more water. You feel a little sick with your stomach sloshing like this but aren’t sure what else you can do. The lights turn off and suddenly there’s literally nothing else to do.

Then you wait.

* * *

 

Gabriel comes back at what is ostensibly lunchtime. This time he has soup, a ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, and potato chips. Most startling, though, is the can of soda, a misty sheen on it that tells you it’s straight out of the fridge.

You _want_ it.

He tells you to get on your knees. With a wet mouth, you tell him to fuck off. As though having all the patience in the world—and still not looking surprised—he turns on his heel and leaves. Before you can do anything else in the cell, the lights turn off.

You’re starting to get sick of the darkness.

* * *

 

Dinner repeats itself in much the same way. You’re starting to get desperate, but it still feels too early to give in. However, this time he’s carrying a slice of meatloaf that smells heavenly, green beans, and mashed potatoes with a glass of wine.

You stare at it longingly. The wine you could do without, but everything else…

Gabriel notices your expression. “You can have the wine first if it makes it easier,” he offers slyly.

“I don’t drink,” you reveal tartly. The insinuation that getting you drunk might make you easier to control makes you angry, even though it’s true. And then, tasting the phantom of spiced meat on your tongue, you manage to say, “Fuck off.”

“Not yet,” he jeers, and then settles in to eat the food for himself.

You can’t comprehend why he’s being so cruel. You know it’s just how he is, and that he’s trying to break you, but it still stings. He eats slowly, letting the air fill with sumptuous aromas, and the only thing you can do is sit on your cot and try to ignore him. More often than not, though, your eyes stray to the disappearing food on the tray.

The food that was supposed to be _yours_.

Without realizing it, tears start to streak down your face.

When he’s finished, he leaves, though not after exhaling in satisfaction. You’re not sure if it’s for show or it if really is that good—you honestly can’t tell, because that food looked _amazing_ —but it makes you jealous and furious nonetheless.

“I’ll give you once more chance,” Gabriel says after the cell door is closed. “Suck me off tomorrow and you’ll get something nice. After that… well, it’s gruel for you.”

He leaves and the lights shut off for the rest of the night.

You spend most of that time trying to decide what the best course of action is.

* * *

 

In the end, it turns out to be a question of how smart versus stubborn you want Gabriel to think you are.

He’s in control here, and he’s given you a choice. Your option is to give him head in return for good food, or deny yourself the last good meal he’s offering you to save your dignity and pride.

If you submit to his demand, you show that you can be won over with rewards. If you don’t, you show that you’re more reliant on stubbornness and sheer defiance. The truth is, though, that the deck was stacked against you since he first came across you. This isn’t a game you can win—the way you’re going to win is by bowing out altogether and escaping. Gabriel can go forever without his blow job, and it’s not like he _has_ to give you the option to refuse if he doesn’t want to. On the other hand, you can’t subsist on only water indefinitely. So this game-within-the-game has a time limit, and you’re going to lose either way.

It’s more of a fact of _how_ you want to lose rather than winning at all.

The more you think through the night, the more you hate yourself and also wonder if you’re even strong enough to go through with this. Your pride and dignity are important to you and you don’t want to lose them, but you knew from the get-go that you were going to have to make sacrifices. Unfortunately, those two things will be the first to go.

Logically, there are only pros to listening to Gabriel when he brings your food in the morning. If you comply with him, not only do you get a good square breakfast to keep your strength up, but you show that you’re smart enough to be reasoned with. _If_ he’s interested in reasoning with you—a relative term, and he’s showing that he is if he’s giving you any option in the first place—giving him evidence that you’re more desperate than stubborn is a good thing. Yes, there’s the fact that he learns you’re smart in the first place, but that’s going to come out one way or the other. The most important thing, though, is that long game: you let him think that he can reward you into good behavior long enough and eventually you’ll get rewarded to the point where you have an opening to escape.

That’s the hope, anyways.

You’re going to end up giving him a blow job at some point. What does it matter if it’s under coercion or completely forced? Yeah, you’re going to hate yourself more for being compliant, but you’re going to be a lot worse off if you stubborn yourself into staying so long he gets bored and kills you. At least being smart makes you interesting, and it’s also the path to freedom.

You don’t sleep much, just as much from thinking as from not wanting to have another nightmare as not wanting to have a good dream, so you’re mostly awake when the lights turn on and Gabriel returns. He has a tray that is the exact same as yesterday’s breakfast, and your stomach grumbles impatiently, especially now that you know you’re going to be able to eat it.

“So, what’ll it be?” he asks, standing casually between you and the breakfast tray.

You swallow hard. Even as much as you thought about it and logicked your way through, it’s not any easier to make yourself do this. Bile rises at the thought of what you’re about to put in your mouth and you force it down.

Instead of answering with a verbal confirmation, you shakily stand up and go to kneel in front of him.

You glance at his face and you can see he’s genuinely surprised for a split second, and that gives you satisfaction. Then you focus on the bulge in front of your face and wait.

But Gabriel waits, too. “Well? Are you going to earn your breakfast or what?”

You realize, as color floods your face, that he’s going to make you do _all_ the work, from start to finish. It’s all on you.

With trembling hands, you reach up and undo his belt and pants. You pull them down just enough to bare his half-hard cock, and you feel even more sick to know that you’re actually going to have to work to arouse him, too.

_This is all you._

After a long moment of hesitation, during which Gabriel shifts pointedly and huffs impatiently, you grip his cock and pump it, inexpertly but enough to start stirring him to life. The larger he grows, right in front of your face, the less you wonder why the rapes hurt so badly. You hope you’re good enough that he comes quickly because your jaw is going to hurt if he takes his time.

Gripping the base of his cock, your shut your eyes to will away the visual and take as much of him into your mouth as possible.

And then, not knowing what else to do, you try to please him as best you can. You stroke the parts of him your mouth can’t take with a firm grip, licking up lengthwise to slick him from base to tip, and then suck and bob your head. You’ve never done this before, but you’ve watched porn and you have a vague intuition of what will probably feel good.

As perverse as it sounds, you know you’re doing well when he grips your head and pulls you down further onto his cock, a ragged breath escaping him. You’re in tune with his sounds, looking for the best way to get him off as quickly as possible. There’s no need to prolong this.

There’s a surprising lack of violence in his touch. He doesn’t shove himself down your throat, though the amount of him you can take into your mouth comfortably is negligible and you kind of expected to be gagged at some point. But it doesn’t happen. You can’t help it; almost as if to encourage this lack of violence, you work harder at pleasing him and try to take more into your mouth.

His thrusts into you are shallow but uneven, and as you work him over to the best of your ability, you can tell you’re doing something right. With an end in sight, you have the wild idea to cup his balls and give them some attention. That could be what gets this over with.

You reach up with your other hand to cup his sac, gently rolling them in your palm and massaging lightly. He says something in Spanish that you can’t hear over the blood rushing in your ears but is definitely positive, his breath stutters, and you go for the finale, taking him so deep he starts to tickle your gag reflex and sucking him with as much tongue in the mix as possible.

When he climaxes, you expect violence and you get it, even if you couldn’t have really prepared yourself either way. He slams himself down your throat, gripping your hair and fucking your face. Reflexive tears drip down your cheeks but you don’t really feel… anything.

No, that’s not quite right.

You feel empty, void, like your soul has vacated your body.

He comes down your throat and despite the mildly offensive taste, you swallow. When he pulls away, panting and with an emotion in his eyes you don’t even _want_ to place, you drop back on your heels and wait for him to leave.

Gabriel doesn’t leave immediately though. He tips your chin up with one strong finger and looks you in the eye. You maintain eye contact, feeling like this is some kind of important moment, though you don’t know what it’s about.

Whatever Gabriel sees satisfies him. He nods decisively to himself, pushes the tray with your prize forward, and exits the cell. He leaves the lights on.

Despite your victory here, no food, rotten or otherwise, has ever tasted so bitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the two things that I really referenced hard here are the dream sequence and the aftermath of rape. My story is obviously quite a bit different, but similar enough that I hope I've done the topics in this chapter justice. If any of you have comments or feedback on this, I welcome it! Although I would appreciate civility here.
> 
> Basically, OHL got put in an extremely abusive treatment center when she was 15 and was stuck there a year. I remember, in vivid detail, after a really bad day of emotional and verbal abuse from the staff and my peers, I had a dream that I had 'graduated' from treatment and was going home. It wasn't nearly in as much detail as reader gets - that was me trying to get across the feeling to people who have never felt this - but it was the most vivid and wonderful dream. I was free, these people couldn't hurt me any more, I never had to go back. In essence, I was finally safe. Instead, I woke up at the hideously early time they set for all of us to get up (they literally used mild but constant sleep deprivation as a way to keep us off-balance and compliant) crying because it was just another day in this hellhole and I had no way to escape, just like reader, 'cause I was a minor and my parents were totes cool with me being there so I had no rights. Also, Utah.
> 
> Also, I covered (some of) the feelings after being raped: the feeling of being dirty, used, and broken is common in women who've been sexually assaulted. I don't know how it is for men or non-binary people - I assume there are similarities, because in the end it's an act of violence that physically takes away autonomy for all genders - but that's where I draw her feelings here.
> 
> Anyways, just a little psychology and OHL share time! And again, I appreciate if any of you would let me know if I portrayed these feelings/the angst accurately!
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really iffy on this idea, so maybe leave a comment to let me know what you think? Or kudos if you think it's got promise. I've never written for Overwatch before, nor a reader-insert, so any feedback would be great!
> 
> <3


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